Come Into My Sleep
by Zagzagael
Summary: Set during Order of the Phoenix and wholly and entirely inspired by Oldman!Sirius rather than bookcanon!Black. How that summer at number twelve, Grimmauld Place affected Hermione Granger...
1. The Heavy Bones in His Wrist

Thin morning fog whispered a promise of afternoon sunshine, glistening whitely outside the windows, pressing at the glass. Shadows of the night lingered in the corners of the bedrooms, at the foot of the beds, inside her head, inside his heart.

She rolled over and tucked her hands beneath her chin, childlike, and looked across Ginny's bed to the window. She hadn't wanted that bed bathed now in soft morning light, she had wanted to stay in the darker part of the room, beneath the heavy, musty coverlet, against the wall, cocooned inside her secret thoughts, waiting, waiting, waiting for the metamorphosis that teased with sighs and murmurs and heat and longing. Waiting for something and she had no idea what it was, what it would want from her, but, and at this she closed her eyes slowly, it had something to do with the man who was sleeping on the floor above her. She knew that, had known it since the day after she arrived. Behind her closed eyes she pictured him, there in his bed, she had never seen his bedroom…wondered for a moment how to arrange such a thing…but none of that mattered, it was the physicality of him, naked beneath his own sheets, his long legs thrown wide, a hand on his chest, his face turned to the light, breathing lightly, shoulders sloping back into the mattress. She thought of his feet and she thought of the arching smooth flesh where his neck bent away from his shoulder. She thought of his long-fingered hands, she had made of them a personal study and if she had had any skill with a bit of charcoal and parchment could have rendered an amazing likeness, and the heavy bones in his wrist. She thought, and trembled inside, of his hands on her and realized that she only vaguely knew where she wanted him to touch her. Her mouth ached.

He lay on his stomach, one knee bent off the mattress, his foot swirling circles in the cool morning air, looking over at the small window tucked beneath the roof eave.


	2. The Thudding of Her Heart Dizzying Her

Hermione and Ginny were standing in the narrow, dim hallway quietly discussing magical renovation of the single water closet, the door of which was swinging closed behind them, on the second floor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione had a towel draped over her arm; her curly locks knotted up on top of her head and held fast with her wand in place of a hair stick. She was wearing a fluffy red robe that hit her mid-thigh. Ginny had her hair wrapped turban-style in a towel and was wearing a similar robe in gold.

"I could probably," Hermione bit her lower lip, "enlarge it. Not to prefect size, quite obviously, but add at least another tub."

Ginny nodded, "What do you think Kreacher would say?" Both girls giggled.

"Or the master of the house when you've waved that pretty little wand and opened up a sizable hole to the outside and we've got the rain coming in?" Sirius had appeared as silently as a ghost. He had a bath towel thrown over his shoulder and a bar of soap in one hand.

Ginny jumped, but Hermione turned fully towards him. "It won't do, Sirius. We need another water closet, this one expanded, or a basin in the room Ginny and I are sharing."

With a cocked eyebrow, he tilted his head and smiled. "And deny the rest of us an eyeful of freshly washed girls?" He stepped back dramatically and appraised the naked legs and bare necks of both young women, but his eyes lingered on Hermione.

Ginny blushed furiously and whispered incoherently before turning on her heel and disappearing down the hall and into a far doorway. Hermione observed the older man watching her, the thudding of her heart dizzying her, his glance raising goose bumps on her flesh. She shivered.

He dragged his gaze up and into her eyes. "You girls and your Gryffindor dressing gowns. Cold?" he asked, his voice thick around the edges.

She shook her head, "No. Not really. Tell me, Sirius," her voice was teasing but with an underlying tone of false bravado, "why is it that we girls are in robes and slippers and the boys are," she hesitated, "completely dressed on their way to and from the bath?"

He grinned widely, "A natural inclination towards modesty?" She laughed. "We're not as good looking as you lot?" She pursed her lips and felt her cheeks grow hot.

He narrowed his eyes, a moment of physical hesitation and then with one hand reached up to the opened collar of his shirt, catching at the placket and began feeding buttons through buttonholes, gapping the shirt wide as he descended, finger and thumb moving deftly. Her mouth parsed open as she watched this undressing. His eyes had grown dark; head bent slightly forward as he worked the buttons and watched her from under his lashes. He tugged the shirttails out of his trousers, the fabric flapping and shrugged out of one shoulder, the black tattoos inked across the span of his chest standing stark against his flesh, mesmerizing beneath the riotous hair there. Slowly, with the tip of his middle finger, he traced the outline of one, watching her, "Or perhaps we have things about us we'd rather not share with everyone?"

"Sirius?" She took a step forward and his hand stilled. "Can I ask you about them?" her voice was uncertain but her eyes held his.

"Mmmm…" he murmured. "I don't know if that would be a good idea."

"Asking?" she slowly lifted one hand and reached out towards him.

"Touching," he said and let his own hand drop away, holding very still.

"Oi, there's a queue, then?" Ron shouted, barreling up the stairs.

Hermione jerked her hand back and turned quickly. Sirius's hand shot out and grabbed at her forearm, her eyes wild as she stepped away and he released her but whispered, "It's alright. It's alright." He was nodding and pulling the shirt back up over his shoulder and in the same motion, turning to greet Ron.

"No waiting, Ronald, but hurry. I've got to soak my head a bit." He was laughing and looking sideways over at Hermione.

Ron stopped short, his eyes fastened on Sirius's chest, the open shirt revealing the filled out physique, the black chest hair and the tattoos. The redhead's brows furrowed low over his nose and he stared openly, mouth slack, then blinked and blushed and looked away.

"Right, right. 'Mione," he nodded at her, walked into the loo and shut the door, eyes flicking back to Sirius then away as it closed.

"Hermione," Sirius said low, his voice tremoring towards her. They turned to one another again, the space between them narrow and warm.

She shook her head and then smiled. Reaching out, she gently pulled at a hank of his hair, he moved his head with the motion to accommodate this and she opened her hand and the ginger waves fell back against his face and she backed away down the hall.

He grinned and leant heavily with one shoulder against the wall, watching her go.


	3. A Rush of Heat

"Magical tattoos! Muggle tattoos!" Molly snorted but then looked sideways down the table at Sirius who was regarding her steadily, fork halfway to his mouth, "Prison tattoos." He nodded at her and saluted with the food-heavy fork. "Why I never heard such nonsense," she trailed off, turning back towards the cook top and motioning with a tight, angry gesture setting each ladle spinning within the assortment of saucepans there. Just as quickly, she turned back to the table, furious, "No son of mine, Ronald Weasley, will be getting a," her lips quivered, "tattoo."

"Molly," Arthur's voice was quiet but stern. She looked at him, her eyes wide and her mouth trembling, he smiled gently at her, "Or daughters, either. Or friends of sons and daughters." They all looked at Hermione who was studying the plate in front of her, twisting her napkin into knots in her lap. Arthur rose, "Here, here," he reached around his wife's waist and untied her apron and draped it across an empty chair back. "You come with me and put your feet up. We'll have a sherry, shall we? And let the children do the washing up. Yes, yes, come on." He led her out of the kitchen.

Ron's lips were a tightly drawn line and he was rolling his eyes and nodding simultaneously. His cheeks and ears the same colour as the red locks of hair he was hiding behind.

The twins had their heads together and murmurs of "hula girls, anchors, teardrops and those spiderweb things….yes, yes, won't wash off but can be charmed off…but we'll only sell the charm to the mums…" could be heard. They each let out peels of laughter and then disappeared with a pop.

Ginny was looking perplexed and wiped at her mouth with her napkin before standing and beginning to stack dishes. She moved between the table and the long, low slung sink with plates and utensils clattering

Sirius was still digging in to his dinner and chewing thoughtfully, glancing between bites down at Ron and then over at Hermione.

Hermione was sitting very still, her hands in her lap, head bent, eyes closed, she felt the world tilting away from her and wanted nothing more than to lay her cheek down on the worn and scarred tabletop and cry. She could feel something inside of her body and it was alternately hard then soft, hot then cold, and it pushed and pulled at her, it was a hollowness that seemed to fill only when Sirius was speaking to her. She opened her eyes, looked up and across the table, he turned his own eyes upon her. And winked. Her heart fluttered, with a rush of heat she felt filled. She smiled and looked away, then rose and began helping Ginny with the clearing.


	4. The Mystery of Herself

The bustle that was just as much a part of the Weasley family as each member of it filled the kitchen. Sirius stood to the side watching and finger-combing his moustache over the edges of his lips.

"Sirius, don't worry about that cauldron of stew, the hob has been charmed to keep it at a simmer, and you can put the kettle here," Molly pointed at a front burner, then reached for the tea kettle and took it to the sink to fill, "I'll just get it ready for you, alright then?"

Sirius frowned but nodded.

"And there's bread and honey in the cupboard. Shall I lay out the things for elevenses? We'll be back for an early supper."

"Oh, mum, he's a grown man," Fred snickered. George added, "He can make his own tea."

Sirius grinned and shrugged at the twins.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron asked.

Sirius stood straighter, looking around the room.

"She's not coming." Molly glanced quickly at Ginny then away, "She's just a bit under the weather and that's all okay, too."

Fred waggled his eyebrows, "Oh, she can't churn the butter today."

Molly shrieked and covered his mouth with her hand and ushered him out of the kitchen. "If I even thought you knew what that meant, you'd be grounded for life." She called to the rest over her shoulder, "Let's be off then."

The group trailed after her voice and Sirius followed, watching as the mob of them disappeared into the fireplace in the front room. He went back into the galley and laid the table for two. Then lit the hob and began to hum when the kettle began to sing.

She came through the doorway and watched him pouring the tea out, one cup and saucer on one side of the table, another cup and saucer directly across on the other side of the table. He was humming, she realized. She walked in and he looked up at her and smiled a broad smile that became a shy grin as she moved closer. With a flourish he pulled out the chair and she sat, he shook out her napkin and she laughed and tugged it away from him. He sat down opposite and began to ladle honey onto a thick slab of bread he handed her. She reached out and her hand was shaking.

"You aren't feeling well," he said quietly.

"No, no, I'm fine." She took a bite into the bread and smiled at him, "Thank you." He was looking at her, concern on his face. "Really, Sirius, I'm fine," she swallowed and smiled.

"You skipped out on a day with the, er…brood," he said quietly.

She looked away, nodding, "I'm an only child. Did you know that? And that crowd can get to be a bit much. Oh, I love them. Love them all, but I need to be alone sometimes. Do you ever feel that? Wanting to be alone?"

He closed one eye and he shook his head, "No, Hermione. Being alone is one of the last things I want these days. Got quite enough of that for one lifetime…" he trailed off and looked away.

"Oh, yes, oh, Sirius, of course. How thoughtless of me. I'm sorry."

"And you're not alone. I'm here." He gulped at his tea, "With you."

"I know, I know. I think I was babbling or something equally silly. Foolishness."

She felt his eyes on her and her cheeks were burning, she just couldn't get it right and realized that her discomfort was coming from a distinct lack of honesty, a bow towards false propriety, she plunged, "You make me nervous. I say stupid things."

"Why should I make you nervous?"

She ran a fingertip around the rim of her teacup and bit her lower lip, then she lifted the cup and sipped at it, looking at him from over the rim. Still hiding. And shrugged.

"So," he slathered another slice of bread with honey and offered it to her, she shook her head no and he took a bite, "what's on the agenda for today? Watering houseplants? Mucking out the basement? Beating rugs?"

"It's quite dull, isn't it? And I can't imagine what it must be like for you."

"I shouldn't joke about Azkaban…but at least we didn't have to tidy."

She was quiet, "No, you shouldn't joke about it, Sirius."

He stood and began carrying the tea things to the sink. "You know what I really want to do? I really want to go outside, take a walk, enjoy an afternoon of sunshine and freedom." He turned to her, "What do you say, Hermione? You want to get out of here?"

"Okay," she agreed softly and felt the cold and icy anger yet to be unleashed from the others wash over her. He was not to leave the house, without having asked she knew that she was to remain inside as well, but the mystery of this man, the lure of an afternoon alone with him, the mystery of herself, was a deafening roar inside her ears and she discarded any sense of responsibility as easily as she tossed the half-eaten bread slice into the bin. "But how?" she asked and was rewarded with a feral grin that made her ribs hurt.


	5. The Skin of Her Girlhood

_Twenty minutes later they step into the fireplace and out into the front room of her home, her parents are at work, she's changed into a pair of muggle jeans and a blouse and strappy sandals and he is beside her in the form of the black wolfhound, Padfoot. She feels instantly discomfited and turns awkwardly on the hearth, stepping down onto the familiar dark wood floor, onto the colourful throw rugs scattered there and a dull and heavy sense of dismay settles into her stomach. But then Padfoot whines and trots through the front room, into the kitchen and sits beside the backdoor. She takes a deep breath, takes another, then joins him and they step out of the house and into the backyard, she lets them out through a gate in the back fence, down the alley and there is the small suburban-set park a half street-length away. Padfoot sees it and breaks into a run, long, canine legs pumping gracefully, his ears streaming back over the handsome head, tail waving in triumph and she can do nothing but laugh out loud with a type of glee she has only ever felt small vestiges of before, it is a feeling that makes her entire body molt the skin of her girlhood and she whispers his name and runs after him._


	6. To Hear His Name Spoken

"But why was he," Ginny's voice was quiet in the dark, "a dog?"

Hermione wrinkled her nose and kicked awkwardly under the sheet, Crookshanks, curled into a feline ball at the foot of the bed, mewed and shifted. Why i had /i Sirius gone in his animagus form? She closed her eyes tightly and moved again, onto her back, kicking out and the cat leapt from the bed. If she could keep her thoughts narrowed to the few hours they had spent in the park, the weight of guilt and recrimination felt less suffocating, she could breathe through it. But if she opened her eyes and the images of Padfoot moved to the peripheral edges of her memory, her vision was clouded with the look etched into Molly's face when the two of them stepped out of the fireplace in the Great Room at the Black house.

She squeezed her eyes tighter shut still and licked her upper lip and concentrated on the afternoon outside, banishing the stifling ten minutes as audience for Molly's parental outrage and fear, Padfoot slinking away, leaving her to the lecture of disappointment and confusion. He had returned a few moments later, dressed, brushing his wildly unkempt locks out of his face and Molly dismissed her and Sirius had shut the door behind her and she could hear their angry voices as she fled.

"Hermione?" whispered Ginny.

"Oh, Ginny. I don't know. It made such perfect sense when he suggested it. It seemed as though it would be safer or something. I don't know," and she really didn't know anymore, it i had /i made perfect sense that morning and continued to feel safe when they were out, but a small part of her admitted to being somewhat let down when he didn't revert back once they were outside, in the glorious sunshine, lying on the summer-warmed green but had stayed in animagus form the entire afternoon. What had she thought he would do? She shook her head against the pillow. She was so incredibly uncomfortable, she turned again and pushed the pillow off the bed and it thumped to the floor. Was she getting ill? Her stomach clenched.

"Mum was really," the younger girl was quiet, "scared."

"I know. I'm sorry. Truly sorry," she fisted her hands under her head and thought of how she had sat down cross-legged and watched him chasing the fat pigeons until he caught sight of her there and trotted over and laid his great, shaggy head on her thigh and she had smiled triumphantly and run her fingers through the black wiry hair to the softer hairs against his skin, down his neck, massaging the ropy muscles of his shoulders. The black eyes had shuttered closed and he snuffled dog-like and relaxed in her lap and she had closed her own eyes and imagined him as a man beside her…not Padfoot. "We thought we would be back before all of you returned. He feels so trapped here, Ginny."

"Hermione," Ginny rolled over and propped herself up on her elbow, the shape of her outlined with moonlight, "Fred says you're crushing on Sirius."

Silence.

"I told him that's ridiculous. And that you're not. At all. I mean, Sirius is…"

Hermione listened to the pause, wanting to hear him described through someone else's words, wanting to hear his name spoken in the same sentence as her own name, breathlessly wondering what the younger girl would declare Sirius to actually be.

"…old. You're certainly not crushing on him." A thick quiet hung in the air, "Are you?"


	7. Sirius Lingered On The Edges

The dinner table had grown quieter as Arthur's words continued to settle amongst them, autumn leaves blown by a sharp and cold wind. His voice was firm and Hermione kept tilting her head with the end of each statement, hearing the cautionary drop in his tone, a distinct sense of fear outlining his eyes, smudging his words. He pushed himself back from the table, the chair legs scraping on the flagstones, "Harry will be joining us this week, a day or two away at most. We don't want him," he looked for support from Molly and she smiled reassuringly, "frightened, but we do need him to sense a seriousness, a purpose, an intent." Then he stood, wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin onto his plate, he smiled broadly at looked at each of the young wizards and witches, "Business as usual with you lot, I suppose, being young people and all. You don't really need the weight of the world on your shoulders. But keep a steady head," he looked away markedly, "no foolish chances, of course, of course," his eyes flitted across to Sirius and he nodded quickly, "before you know it, summer hols will be over and it will be back to the parchments and quidditch and schooldays."

Chairs scraped, china clattered, Molly stood and directed the washing up until finally she shooed them out of the galley and into the Great Room.

Hermione retrieved a pack of playing cards from a shelf and asked the room, "Witches Wisk?"

The twins were huddled conspiratorially on the sofa and shook their heads. Remus had poured out two single-malts for himself and Sirius, then sat in one of the wingback chairs by the hearth and settled a book onto his lap. Sirius lingered on the edges of the game table before Hermione finally pulled a face at him and indicated that he sit down beside her. He sat. Ron and Ginny were seated on the other sides, Ginny smiled at him but when he placed his whisky on the table between them she grimaced, "Oooh, that smells awful, Sirius, please."

He moved the glass to his other side and Hermione grinned, "I like it. It's earthy. Reminds me of the Forbidden Forest a bit…"

He nodded, "Quite peaty, isn't it? Now, I haven't played this in years, you're going to have to help an old man out. And what's the stakes?"

She frowned at him. "Stakes? Sirius. We're not betting."

"No?" he grinned at her, one eyebrow arched.

Lupin leaned over and watched, "Break with tradition, Sirius. Games can be played for fun, you know." He was smiling.

"That's something new then." He looked at Hermione, "I play to win," he murmured.

Hours passed within a warm embrace of laughter and jokes, hands dealt and won and lost, Remus retired, the twins disappeared, Arthur and Molly, arm-in-arm, kissed everyone but Sirius goodnight, Ginny left, Ron lingered and then trudged out darkly. Sirius looked at Hermione teasingly, rose and bowed deeply before walking out of the now fire-lit room, only to return a minute later as Padfoot. She smiled and joined him on the hearthrug where he promptly curled up into a tight ball and pressed himself against her. She stroked his head. And many hours later left him and went to bed.


	8. The Fierce Beats of His Heart

Days became filled with busy work, shoulders brushed in the hallway. Harry arriving, fingers touching between fragile tea cup handles. Order meetings, glimpses through open doorways of Sirius stretching, arms over his head, leaning back in the chair and closing one eye in the way that she knew meant utter and complete disdain of protocol. Professor Snape's voice lilting into her dreams carrying foreboding and judgment, held gazes longing for clocks to stop ticking. Early evenings of card games, Sirius finally insisting on bets of wilder and more demanding stakes, 'make my bed every morning' 'shine every shoe and boot in the place' 'give Kreacher a compliment twice a day' 'bow before me whenever I am present.' Laughter and a distinct sense of camaraderie and heightened awareness, deep breaths, closed eyes and every inch of her skin thirsting for his touch.

And every late evening becoming theirs alone, on the hearth rug, the black deerhound who could listen but not speak, her face pressed into the hair of his neck, the desolation of climbing the stairs alone and falling into her cold, narrow bed.

--------------------------------

Padfoot leapt gracefully onto the sofa and lay down with his head on his front paws, stretching the formidable length of himself out. It was a very late evening, the fire burnt to ash and ember, the room cool and the end of August distinct in the early autumnal chill on the blackened glass windows, slivers of night visible between the heavy drawn drapes. Hermione stood, her heart pounding, unsure, he whined and one dog eyebrow lifted and fell. She wedged herself into the corner of the sofa, against the arm and let her hand rest on his neck. She was so tired and her head fell back against the cushion and she slept, one of his velvet ears twined between her fingers.

Someone was shouting, the shout a hoarse and labored sound, caught in the throat, laden with emotion and fear. She came awake instantly. She was lying on the sofa in the Great Room, pressed against the back of it, something furry against her face, down the side of her, and the sound of shouting keening into a low moan. She struggled and suddenly was free of the pressure against her, Sirius sat up, in the dark, and she could see the faint outline of his head and broad shoulders against some dim light from the kitchen galley shining through the partially opened door.

"Sirius?" she whispered and he jumped.

He brought both hands up to his head and rocked back and forth. She reached for him, the fur coat of the animagus hung loosely open, her arms snaked around his torso and her hands felt the taut muscles of his belly, she pulled him back against her. He turned in her arms, shudders running through his body and instinctively she cradled him against her chest, one hand on the back of his head, the other pulling at a shoulder. They lay down as one, his body pushing her back into the sofa, the long length of him against her, his bare feet catching her own and pulling them between his ankles, holding her fast. The coat fell open and he shouldered it across the two of them, she felt a burning heat from his body and pulled him closer, pulled herself up into his warmth and he wrapped his arms around her waist and laid the side of his face against her breast and breathed ragged heavy breaths into the fabric of her blouse.

Two summers before she had held an injured tern at the beach. Held it fast against her while her father inspected its broken wing. She had to hold its head hard beneath her palm lest it injure her in its eye-rolling fear. Her father was tight-lipped and grim, she knew the bird was going to have to be euthanized, and she had begun murmuring nonsense down into its salty feathers, whispering meaningless sounds and it had stilled in her arms and her father led her up to the parking lot where they found a beach attendant who relieved her of the terrible weight of the dying bird. And for the rest of the afternoon she could feel the breakneck speed of its beating heart fluttering phantom-like against her ribs. Now, with the man in her arms, she remembered the tern. She bent her head towards his and spoke softly to him until he fell asleep, the fierce beats of his heart insinuated between her flesh and his.

But when she woke in the grey light of the earliest part of the morning, it was she who was being cradled in his arms, her head tucked against his chest, his arm around her neck, his hand cupping her shoulder, and as she looked up his eye lashes fluttered peacefully against his cheek and she smiled. The sound of a tea kettle and the gas burner igniting widened her eyes and she turned her head to listen. A male whistle from the kitchen, a chair being moved, a cupboard door clicking open then shut, she slowly rose from the sofa, Sirius's hand falling free and she stood on shaky legs. Another whistled melody and she recognized Remus's pitch. She hurried out of the room and took the stairs two at a time, easing her bedroom door open quietly.

Remus came in through the kitchen and sat down on the end of the sofa with a steaming cup of tea in each hand. "Wake up," he said. "What are you doing?" He looked down at the sleeping figure, watching him surface out dreams, "What are you doing, Sirius?"


	9. The Explosive Distance

She stretched out beneath the water, the depths of it tepid and the surface oily with spent bubbles; she had been soaking for what felt like an hour. The bath definitely needed some sort of clock, she mused, and thought of her functional little pink and green bath at home, modern and chrome and decorated in bold stripes and a hint of polka dots, a jaunty alarm clock set on shelving that held bath sheets. Her mother was delighted with it and called it "the girl's powder room." She sighed and looked around at the Black clan bathroom with its soaring ceilings, dark wood paneling, hardwood floors creaking and warped by decades of steam, the clawfooted tub and the pedestal basin, both ringed with greenish iron stains, two small high windows whose only function was to draw the steam and even at that they failed. Upon her arrival, she had been horrified with the bath and the house in general, the gloomy foreboding atmosphere and the distinct sensation of creepiness. But it quickly became evident that the darkness seemed to have more to do with the air of the house and not the actual structure or décor. And certainly, after only a day, she had become acutely aware that 12 Grimmauld Place had long been a house of pain and her heart ached to think of Sirius as a little boy growing up there.

Sirius. She had woken in his arms and although she could literally tremble with the remembering of it, Lupin's presence in the kitchen had somehow spelled the end of their nights alone, on the hearth, in the Great Room. It had been several long days since, the evenings stretched out with a forlorn sense of loss, foreshortened with Sirius being ushered off to other rooms at bedtime and she lying frustrated and sad in her own room thinking of his nightmare, of holding him, the heat of his flesh, waking with her head on his chest, he sleeping so peacefully, playing the endless loop of it over and over in her mind until she had worn it to a transparent thinness.

Slowly she eased her head beneath the water and shook her mane of curls out with her fingertips. She surfaced and accio-ed a bottle of shampoo and lathered her hair, slid under again and repeated the process. She dragged her fingers through the thickness of her hair and, closing her eyes, imagined Sirius doing the washing instead of her. That made her smile and the practical side of her imagined that with his own head of ginger waves, he would probably do a fine job of it, too. And once activated, her practicality slid smoothly into the place where she was occupied with what had become near constant daydreaming about him. She had never had an experience like it before, the past six weeks had become a journey to a place she had never been before, never considered before. Each day jotted down in detail inside a small journal, coded for privacy and charmed on top of that with a repelling spell, her entries were deeply personal, a map that revealed where she kept all of her secrets. And not a one of them involved her friends or family, school or Voldemort. The shape and form of Sirius, physically, emotionally and mentally could be laid over the top, a thin sheet of vellum and the map would follow the contours of himself perfectly.

She sighed. She missed him. He had cornered her briefly the day before and apologetically told her it wasn't her, it was him. And the prying eyes and listening ears and judging countenances of the others.

As the door snicked shut behind her and she stood in the morning light of the hallway, she saw a movement from the corner of her eye and there he was, standing halfway down the stairway that led to the third floor. His hand lightly grasping the railing, his eyes shining dangerously at her through the explosive distance that separated them. He brought a finger to his lips and then motioned to her with his other hand. She followed. Without question or sideways glance. And he turned and reached out behind him and she reached up and put her fingers into his warm hand and he grasped her tightly and urged her up into the shadows of the stairs.

They reached the top, a short and narrow hall with two closed doors on either side. A small window, dirty and set high into the coved eave of the ceiling.

He turned quickly and with a decisive movement pinned her against the wall, both his hands coming up and gently unwrapping the turbaned towel around her head and dropping it to the floor, combing through the wet locks, and then with an agonizing slowness bringing a handful up to his face, breathing in the scent of her and then he pushed himself against her and pressed his mouth against her ear. "Oh, Hermione."

She nodded, yes, yes, nearly crying out. She reached for him frantically but he backed out of the promise of an embrace and stilled her hands with his own, holding her fingers fast, opening her arms and looking at her. "I miss you," he whispered. 

And she bit her lower lip and smiled, "Me, too."

He studied her, under serious brows, "How old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen in three weeks time."

He nodded and licked the hairs of his moustache out of his mouth, against the finely sculpted corner of his lips.

"So young?"

She watched him close his eyes and something dropped away from her and she knew it was the feeling of hope. It fell away and left a gaping hole where it tore free from behind her ribs.

Beside them there was a furious pounding of stairs and Molly moved into the small space they occupied and Sirius dropped one of her hands, but held the other fast and moved aside to face the older woman, his shoulder in front of Hermione, as though to shield her.

"I have had quite enough of this, Sirius. More than quite enough. Enough!" Her face was alternately drawn into a mask of anger and then falling into the shape of despair. "Hermione, you" she pointed a shaking finger at her, around Sirius's arm, "you're not innocent either. Go downstairs, at once. I will speak with you in a moment."

Sirius would not let loose of her hand, but she bent and grabbed at the towel on the carpet and straightening, she squeezed his fingers and shook her own free and looked over at his profile, sharp and unmoving and she walked slowly past Mrs. Weasely and down the stairs.

The boys were knotted tightly halfway down the hall and she held her head high and walked past them and into her room where she sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, and felt the imprint of his hand in her own like a burn. She opened it palm up and looked at it, then lay down and turned her face to the wall and wept dry tears that would not fall.


	10. My Dead Life That Tastes Like Ashes

"Sirius," Arthur indicated one of the wingback chairs as he sat in the other, "We need to talk."

Sirius smirked and shook his head, the ginger waves falling over his shoulder, glinting gold in the firelight. "Do we?"

"I think, yes, I think we do. We should. Please."

Sirius sat and crossed his legs, leaning back jauntily, hands and fingers tapping on the arms of the chair. "As friends? No. Mmm…surrogate father then, this how you talk to your boys? Not that either. Ah, as Molly's toady perhaps?"

Arthur blushed slightly and pursed his lips.

Sirius continued, "The big bad wolf at the door and the wee innocent lass on the other side. I've heard it already. Thank you very much."

Arthur looked stricken.

The younger man sneered slightly, "And Lupin's the wolf, I'm just exactly what you think I am. A dog."

"I know you don't think so, but, I do understand…"

Sirius snorted and laughed bitterly, nodding.

"She's a beautiful girl. And smart, oh smart as anything. And," Arthur cleared his throat, and wiped his hands on his knees, "perhaps a bit confused, love struck if you will. I'm not blind to her part in this."

The younger man shifted in the chair, stretching his arms stiffly over his head, leaning back, closing one eye and considering the older man. A type of feral power underlining each movement. Finally sitting forward, elbows on knees. "It's nice, isn't it?" his head was down, fingers combed into his hair.

"What's nice, Sirius?" Arthur felt a cold wind blow through him.

Sirius lifted his head and Arthur saw that the chill was coming from the other man, out of his eyes, the set of his mouth, that tilt of his head. "Having a life. Seven children. Arthur," he raised one eyebrow. "A wife. Getting to be," Sirius looked away, "a man. Live a man's life."

Arthur shrugged and started to speak, Sirius cut him off by jumping to his feet, "Must be nice, eh, wake up in the morning with your cock hard and, and just like that," he snapped his fingers, Arthur flinched, "move into a place of comfort, into a woman's body." Arthur closed his eyes. "Not have to jack yourself off, gods, I don't even do that anymore, years enough of that at Azkaban have left me a bit soured on my own companionship. No, every single morning I ache. Just lie there and ache. You wake in the night and she's an arm's reach away, right? I wake up screaming, sweating blood, and I'm alone. Utterly alone."

"Now Sirius."

"No, don't interrupt me Arthur!" he growled. "Am I embarrassing you? I hope not, suck it up, why don't you. If you're embarrassed don't be embarrassed about the fact that you've got a woman at your beck and call, someone to suck your dick and make you a nice cauldron of stew, birth a herd of your children. Be embarrassed for your sheer blind luck, ten years difference there. Ten years, mate, and you could have been me. Nothing but a life in ruins, friends dead or catatonic or," he had the good grace to look down, "plagued not so much with a curse, but a kind of nasty bad luck that gets worn like an old coat and cannot be taken off."

The werewolf walked slowly into the room, Sirius smiled bitterly. "Speak his name and he shall appear." Remus smiled sadly but stood on the outer edges of the cast firelight.

"Voldemort, the Death Eaters, destroyed so many lives, everyone dead and gone, and in some ways, Arthur, I envy them. I envy the dead."

Arthur gasped. Remus fisted his hands into his trouser pockets.

Sirius nodded, "My life is ruined. I am a dead thing, don't you see? Dead but condemned to this living purgatory where I've got nothing but myself and this shattered life and ghosts. A headful of ghosts, Arthur. Memories from a life that never even got started." He turned on him venomously, "I'd bet my wand hand that you, you and Molly, don't count your days at Hogwarts as the best days of your life. I'd bet my wand hand…." And he was crying. "What am I paying for? What have I done? It must have been something so awful, so unspeakably awful…"

Remus moved quickly then, coming around to the front of him, but Sirius motioned him off with a quick gesture and turned away from him, tenting his fingers over his forehead.

Arthur rose from the chair; his shoulders slumped and approached the younger man. He put a hand on his arm and patted him awkwardly. "Sirius."

Sirius stiffened beneath the touch and wiped at his face roughly. He turned slowly, "Take your precious lamb, Arthur, out of here. Away from me. She's not mine, obviously, and I'm acting a fool even if she could be. Nothing belongs to me. She made me feel alive, but I'm not. Not really. Everything I've loved just turns to ash."

"That is not true."

"No?" He faced the other man and looked at him from under lowered brows. Arthur held the gaze, the pain there as bright as unshed tears. "When I finally got clear of Azkaban, when I finally got clear and things began to make a bit of sense, I thought, for longer than I care to remember now, I thought I had died. But finally, I've had to shake that off, I'm not dead, this is my life. My dead life that tastes like ashes."

Remus finally reached out and forcefully pulled Sirius into his arms. "Enough, enough," he whispered against the other man's ear, with a hand, he pulled his head down to his shoulder and held him tightly.

------------------------------------------

Molly was sitting up in bed reading. As Arthur turned from pushing the door quietly closed, she set the pulp romance face down, onto her lap, he looked away from the moaning witch and wizard locked in one another's arms on the lurid cover. He sighed.

"Well?" she asked.

He nodded and shed his clothes quickly, tossing them into a heap onto a chair. He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms decorated with lucky clovers that flashed green and gold, and then he climbed into bed beside his wife. He lay back on the pillow and covered his eyes with a forearm.

"Arthur?" she asked quietly. He nodded his head, beneath his arm. She took the paperback and set it on the bedside table, switched off the lamp, then rolled over, up on her elbow and looked down at him. "What did he say? Is it going to stop?"

A choked sound. Molly slowly reached out and gently pulled her husband's arm away from his face. His cheeks were wet with tears, eyes screwed tightly shut, eyebrows furrowed and his lips locked tight against his sobbing.


	11. Such a Simple  Gesture

Prefects. Hermione glanced down the long length of the galley table and smiled. Ron. The look he was wearing, a sweetness there, vulnerability, pride and something more, she narrowed her eyes a tiny bit and sucked on her lower lip, was it perhaps a sense of surprised righteousness then? This belonged to him, entirely, without anyone else's say-so or assistance or overshadowing presence, he had achieved this through the simple force of his personality. Prefect material, someone other than his mum thought he qualified, was deserving. She nodded a small nod in agreement with her thoughts. He caught this movement and smiled broadly at her.

Harry had just made another toast and she couldn't help but wince a bit at this brazen show of overcompensation. But that was okay, too, she felt her own pinching guilt about her assumption earlier that afternoon regarding Ron's badge and suddenly she stood, raised her own glass of butterbeer and said, "To Ron."

He smiled thankfully.

Sirius stood on the opposite side of the table, "To Ron," he answered loudly.

Molly turned wet, shining eyes on both of them and beamed. Hermione glanced over at Sirius and he was watching her, he nodded and she shivered, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. Molly had needed this spot of good luck, a vicarious sort of pride filling out the drawn and tired lines in her face. Hermione felt another quick pinch of guilt but then got caught up in the movement as the crowd shifted out of the kitchen and into the Great Room.

Suddenly, shoulder to shoulder with Sirius, he grabbed her fingers and squeezed and then threw an arm around Harry and jostled himself between them both.

------------------------------

She had gathered up empty butterbeer mugs and an errant dessert plate and ducked back into the kitchen. Setting everything quietly into the basin and turning the water on, she closed her eyes and cleared her throat softly, she just couldn't seem to swallow the heavy lump of emotion lodged there. She ran her hands beneath the warm faucet spray, rubbing her fingers, massaging the balls of her thumbs down into her palms.

"Experience says that tends to work better with soap," Sirius's voice was quiet and she turned her head to find him leaning against the counter top beside the sink, smiling at her.

She smirked. "I thought I might be doing something wrong."

He laughed, a susurration that trickled off the ends of her fingers like the water drops, she closed her fingers into her palm, and let out a ragged breath. He winked and bent his head towards her in a sympathy of longing, but pointedly looked back over his shoulder and out the doorway, into the other room with its happy voices.

She reached down into the sink and stoppered the drain and began filling the basin with a soapy water charm. "Have you had your fill of cleaning or would you like to help me with the washing up?"

"Dare I mention the house-elf's name?" he said jokingly and she shot him a withering look. He retrieved a dishtowel and waited for the first dish.

They worked together in a companionable silence for a long moment. Sirius spoke, "Ron is an amazing person, really amazing. It must be hard at times for him, and you, to carry on side by side with Harry. The three of you are such good mates. It's brilliant to see it. Gives the rest of us hope, you know."

"Hope? In what way?"

"In the love conquers all way, I think."

"If that's all it requires, then we should be straight in. I love them both." She looked at him quickly, "As mates."

He nodded. "These friendships, relationships, the three of you, well that all of you, are building now, will affect you forever. Can shape your life if you let it. In a good way. Sometimes in a bad way, too, I guess."

"I think that is a true thing. I value them. The boys. I hope we get on when we're grown and out of Hogwarts," she hesitated, "when all this is done and over."

He nodded and tossed the dishtowel onto the table. "Look at James and Lily. Ended up married with a child. Lupin and I are like an old married couple now."

"Is that right?" she grinned at him and he shouldered her and she pushed back.

"They're great boys, they're going to be amazing men. Harry needs you both, that's an obvious thing to everyone, to all of us. And I know that both of you are there for him." He took a deep breath, "But, Ron needs you specifically in ways that Harry doesn't."

She looked at his face, at his mouth that was saying what she didn't want him to be saying, she looked at his broad shoulders, a peek of an earlobe through his hair. She looked over his shoulder at the firelight flickering through the doorway to the other room, still resonating with laughter and tired voices.

"Hermione?"

She nodded. "What do you want me to do with that, Sirius?"

He held her gaze and shook his head, "I'm not entirely sure."

The day was done, the evening over, morning already calling from the other side of the night with a hurried tone and this time tomorrow she would be seated in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and all this would fall away and she knew she would have to let it go.

"Hold onto it?" he asked with a tone she couldn't recognize. "Keep it in mind."

She nodded and brushed past him and rejoined the others.

------------------------------

It was such a simple…gesture. Something that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else. A small movement, really. Yet solid and full of grace and masculine strength. From Harry's back, up over his shoulders and then cupping his head, long-fingered, square-blunted fingered hand just there. And Hermione felt something inside her chest shift sideways and then that i something /i falling down into her…yes, into her womb. She felt that. Felt it trill through her lungs as she stood in the doorway and watched Sirius hug Harry goodbye, watched the heavy embrace the older man pulled him into, up into his broad chest. She had blinked then strained her eyes open; she wanted it to be her.

And at the train station, Padfoot swung his beautifully sculpted head into her thigh and she quickly, quickly, squatted down beside him and pulled him against her and whispered incoherently into his ear. And just as quickly, straightened and ran for the train, rubbing hard at her face, pulling her hair over her eyes. She did not look back.


	12. Waiting With Hope

And now she was back at Hogwarts, in her bunk, beneath the heavy, muted tones of her quilted duvet, rolling the fabric, bunching it on top of her, pulling it down to her and wishing there was some way she could find herself in the bed of Sirius Black. Nineteen days without his physical presence, they had talked with him in the common room fireplace, Harry had actually done the talking, she had been reduced to nagging the likes of which would have made Molly proud. It was exhausting. And the charade of it all leaving a thick and ugly tarnish on the rich emotions she was hoarding, glimmering gold and shining silver memories of him discouloured with worry and anger and petty jealousy.

But she knew he considered her. Had considered her. And what did he think of her now. She smiled in the dark, what would he think if he knew she had put her formidable intelligence, her practicality and strict sense of responsibility, on hold and was reaching down between her own legs with nothing more than thoughts of him dusted across her fingertips. She bit her lower lip. Hard. And arched forward and her eyelids shuddered closed and she focused intently on the way the ginger moustache hairs curled over his upper lip and how he would push them aside with the wide tip of his tongue and then…

She woke, early bluish morning light streaming through the mullioned windows and her immense feeling of longing rose with the sun and she was sixteen years old. It was her birthday. With a self-assured nod, she began devising a way to make it her most memorable one yet.

Even Hogwart's Castle was sympathetic; the door to the Room of Requirement opened on a small room with a fully functional fireplace, and on the edge of the mantle stood a small, ivory bowl full of floo powder. Her heart began to pound. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice echoing back from every corner to her.

------------------------------

He was seated, hunched, at the far end of the long galley table in the kitchen. His head cradled on crossed arms, asleep. She stood in the doorway, every sensible sense inside her head screaming at her for this trespass, but she was past any point of listening now to reason. Driven by desire, her, Hermione Granger, of all witches and wizards, to have impulsivity beckoning with a seductive promise. She wanted this, wanted to be enslaved to her body not her mind. She licked her lower lip and stepped down onto the pavers, he didn't move and she crept up slowly, one hand already reaching for him. And then he was up, faster than she could see him move, wand out, one strong hand fierce and painful around her upper arm, the other jabbing the wand into her breast, against her heart, she was nearly off her feet as he came up to his full height, pulling her with him. The chair beneath him knocked over backwards, her feet skittering as she began to lose her balance and her hands reaching, reaching out, finding fistfuls of his waistcoat and grabbing there.

"Hermione?" he shouted, his grip tighter around her arm, pushing the wand deeper.

She nodded; throat clenched closed, and pushed her hands into his belly. He pulled her against him. She was staring up into his face, his features tight and drawn across his bones, his eyes violent in their sockets but she could see recognition growing there and she could do nothing but hold her breath and feel the sheer power of him as he held her fast.Slowly, with time stretching out indefinably, he lowered her back to her feet, instinctively she tried to move away from him and his grip loosened but then tightened again on her arm.

"Oh, Merlin's beard, girl." Then he pulled her into his arms and she could feel him shaking.

His fright and relief and her own lust and fear twined around them, spindles spinning freely, greedy for the silken strands. He was holding her tight, beneath her arms, arms around her body, hands wide against her shoulder blades. She pressed back and both her hands released his clothing and snaked around to his back, fingers indenting into his spine.

He took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away. "What? I don't even know where to begin…what are you doing here? Why?" He shoved back a thick hank of waves, behind his ear, out of his face and looked down at her. He let go and bent over to right the chair, with a foot he pushed another out from beneath the table and indicated that she should sit.

She sat. And he sat, but pulled his chair towards her, their knees fast against each other. He reached out and took her hands in his own. "You… That was not good. Hermione. You have no idea."

"Sirius," she looked down at their joined hands, and then back up into his eyes, "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. I don't know…I'm so so sorry." Her eyes brimmed and spilled over.

His eyes narrowed.

"Let me make you tea?" she whispered and brought his hand up to her face, wiping at her tears with the back of her own hand, fingers still entwined with his.

"Tea?" his brows furrowed. "No." He gently shook her fingers loose and with his thumb wiped beneath both her eyes. "No tea. And you did not come here to put the kettle on."

She shook her head, then with her free hand gingerly pressed at the underside of her breast, a sharp pain pinpointed itself where he had driven the tip of his wand. She winced.

"I hurt you." He reached out but pulled his hand back quickly, watching her fingertips massage the spot.

She nodded and blushed. He reached again, with both hands, and gently pulled her hand down into her lap and held it there and with the other, he began to unbutton the white schoolgirl blouse, pushing it open, up and over her shoulder, across the one breast, the sleeve down her arm. His gaze was locked to hers as he hooked two fingers beneath her bra and brushed upwards, she half-closed her eyes as he found the bruise. She leaned into his touch and beneath her lowered eyelashes she saw him move forward, bending his head towards hers, his hand opening and palming her breast, she pushed harder. He inhaled sharply and her eyes closed completely, the tip of her tongue clicking against her top teeth, that feeling again lodging inside her lungs, then his forehead was against hers and his fingers beneath her chin, coaxing her face up and the feeling exploded and ricocheted in shards of pleasure off each rib, scattering down her spine with an immediate heated burn.

"Is this a dream?" he asked, his voice husky, his mouth so close to hers she could feel his moustache brush against her lips.

She tried to shake her head no or to whisper that it wasn't, but his hands were on her face, palms fitted around her jaw, thumbs at the corners of her mouth, fingers under her ears and he was tilting her head back and his mouth was right there and she closed the distance with the slightest push forward and her lips pressed against his. Just there. She could feel the slant of his mouth above hers, the electric pads of his fingers holding her still. With a boldness she had somehow always known she possessed, she brought her own hands up and over his shoulders brushing the back of his neck, then her fingers pulling at his ears and she deepened the kiss and from far away heard her chair legs scraping on the flagstones as he pulled her towards him, nearly onto his lap and he was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her. In a voice she had never heard herself utter before, she moaned his name into his mouth, through his teeth and he moved fiercely at the sound of it, the taste of it, dropping his hands under her arms, enfolding her. He leaned back in his chair and kicked her chair out from under her as he brought her fully against him, between his legs, her knees nearly brushing the floor, but he was holding fast and still pulling her towards him. He sprawled against the chair back, his legs fell open and then his thighs tightened around her hips. And his mouth, hot hot hot on hers, his tongue deep inside, and her body filled with a liquid fire rising from an awakened core of heat at the very centre of herself.

Gently, slowly, his lips brushing the edges of hers, his tongue licking at the corners of her mouth, he broke the kiss and sat up, surfacing from the shared dream, lifting her onto his leg, his arms around her waist and he buried his face into her neck, beneath her chin, his lips against the sharp edge of her collarbone. And she pressed her own mouth down into his hair and moved against him, the feminine curve of her body perfectly matching the masculine bending of his. She breathed deeply, taking the unwashed musky smell of him into her lungs and she closed her eyes and held her breath. Her heart was beating with the wings of a bird inside the cage of her ribs.

"Hermione," he whispered against her skin, his words cooling the warm kisses there. She nodded and he began to ease himself out of her arms, she tightened her hold on him, strong and insistent.

"Don't you dare. Sirius, don't you dare let me go."

He laughed softly and sat back anyway, "Here, here, beautiful girl, I'm not going to let go, but we need to talk about this."

Slowly she moved to the outer edge of his embrace and looked into his face. His eyes were soft and smoky.

"Hermione."

"Sirius."

"I can't."

"Quite obviously you can."

He twisted his lips in a smile so charming she kissed him quickly. He allowed this and she sat back again, her lower lip tucked beneath her teeth.

"I can't. We can't. And don't think that means I don't want to or that I won't. I do want this, I want you, but I want more," he trailed off.

"Sirius," she whispered and nodded

"No, I don't mean _that_ more, I mean more from us. From the potential of a relationship. And there's no arguing it, Hermione," he put a finger on her lips and shook his head. "I can wait." She shook her head violently, his voice dropped a dangerous octave, "You _can_ wait. I have waited longer for far less. Don't. Please, my most darlingest of girls, don't do that." He leaned into her and kissed her tears, ran his lips down her cheek and found her mouth. He whispered, "No, no, it's alright. You can. I believe in this and if you believe in it, then you will wait with me. For me."

------------------------------------

The nondescript owl flew steadily towards her and landed quietly beside the bowl of porridge and cup of tea. She was startled and it tilted its downy head at her and held out a leg.

"Never saw him before, 'Mione," Ron remarked through a mouthful of sausage and eggs.

With a shaking hand she untied the note and stuffed it into her bag quickly, "I've just remembered, I've got an appointment with a first year, oh bother, I'm late." She stood quickly and nodded a round of goodbyes then left the hall at a fast walk. Ducking behind a corner she dug out the note and with a shaking hand, unfolded its crude origami and caught her breath as she recognized the hand.

_And so it begins. Waiting with hope is an altogether new experience for one who waited so long without it. I dreamt of you last night. Soon, S._


	13. Aparacium Somnia

There came a shift in the days and weeks that followed, it was a fierce and unsettling movement inside her, frenzied waves pounding in place of her heart's beating. It had begun the moment she had left Sirius, the day of their kiss. A storm borne of their shared physicality raging still, out into each extremity, to the surface of her skin, the curling edges of her ears, the long and trembling tendons on the insides of her thighs, and the calm centre of it bearing the body memory of him. He had held tightly to her hand as she stepped into the fireplace and her fingers tingled when she stepped out into the Room of Requirement and tingled still. Something had come unmoored, a ship no longer harbored safely, set to sail upon an interior sea open on every watery side with a heady horizon stretching from the furthest edges of her mornings to her evenings. Only in the darkest part of the night could she close her eyes, finger the growing stack of missives with his boyish slanting scrawl, and find her bearings. That something, that shifting, the shadowy ship captained in heady secret, she surmised, was her beckoning womanhood, pulling at the ripcords of the sails, fine tuned to the winds, setting a course that led to the man, always to him. His words, brief though they were, came nearly every morning, on the leg of a different owl, and represented the leafy twig brought from an unseen, unknown land, a promise of imminent arrival, the promise of completion. And oh how she longed to anchor the ship and set foot on the sandy beaches that would lead her to him, to the bower in which he waited.

---

_Late afternoon tea, and a Hogwarts owlery bird. This is what I wait for every day. I leave that small window at the top of the house open and to hear the owlpost moving through these dark and dank floors makes me smile every single time. Thank you for this luxury. S._

---

_R. raised an eyebrow this afternoon. "Quite a bit of mail you've been getting, old boy," he said. I suspect he knows. I no longer feel angry or threatened by his words, or M's words or A's words. This is real and I will not be judged. S._

---

_Yes, every night. I tried, yesterday, to nap and see if you would appear but you didn't. It seems your dream spectre comes to me only in the dark. When I need you most, dearest. Until tonight. S._

---

The longest bit of parchment she had from him was the most dangerous and the letter that made her realize she must be certain that the transfiguring charm she had placed on the packet of letters was as foolproof as her skill could render it. The letter came as a result of her request that he write longer and it was a scroll-length document inked with only her name over and over and over and there at the very end, his full name. The gentle _Specialis__Revelio_ she uttereddid reveal that he had written each one, there had been no repeating charm cast, she counted and he had quilled her name one thousand twenty three times and she had bitten her lip and the words blurred in front of her hot tears.

---

_I wish I could write scrolls of words as you do. I tried early this morning, but it made me anxious and unhappy and I practiced an old incendiary spell I thought I had forgotten. How I adore your long letters full of who you are. Your words settle me and soothe me. I'm sorry that I cannot offer you the same, but know that each word I write is heartfelt. S._

---

_Such frightening and dark times. I had thought, once, we had seen the worst it could become, but I understand now that this monster is fed on fear and murder and destruction and will not stop until he is well and truly stopped. Destroyed. Yet, my mind is filled with a kind of golden light and you are its source. S._

---

_Will you come for the Christmas hols? I have a gift for you. It's very special. Much, much love, S._

----------------------

She was inside the lodge, staring forlornly at the winter-groomed slopes, the brightly-coloured skiers flashing past, the deeply blue skies, the stark white clouds, all outside the immense wall of windows. She looked over for the hundredth time at the huge, towering Christmas tree standing beribboned and bedecked off to the side of the open hearth, stacked with logs, in preparation for a roaring group fire that evening. She imagined there would be marshmallow roasting and, she let her eyelids slide shut, rounds of carols. She couldn't stay. She leapt to her feet. She had to leave. And she looked again towards the glass and thought she saw the fair-isle cap she had knitted for her mum last yuletide bobbing about in a group of people moving towards the doors. She would beg off, right now, right now. And go. To him. She looked closer, it wasn't her mother.

She sat back down, heavily, on the rough-hewn rocking chair and buried her face in her hands. The duplicity of her life was wearing her to a thin, narrow representation of who she was, who she considered herself to be. What untruth would she have to harvest from this field of deceptions she had been tending for months now, what sort of story would she have to hand her parents and then stand back expectantly, hands folded one into the other behind her back, eyes downcast, and the toes curling in the ends of her shoes.

An utterly unlike her temptation to leave a note and disappear washed through her like nausea.

She rocked the chair in her unwieldy ski boots and fought an urge to weep so strong she thought it might actually cause her to vomit.

Oh, girl, she admonished herself, get a grip.

She reached down and unbuckled the boots, pulled one foot out, then another, stood and stretched, reaching her arms high over her head, going up on her toes, breathing cleanly down into her diaphragm. She needed to move, she needed to go upstairs, to pack and then wait for her parents to come in off the slopes for lunch. She was leaving. Entering her life.

---------------------

Christmas Eve over, Christmas Day passed and now it was the early, grey morning of Boxing Day and she wondered, when would he give her the promised gift? Was it something practical rather than frivolous? Was it the figurative wren that would usher in a year of good luck?

She was alone in the kitchen galley waiting to take the kettle off the boil, a silencing charm forcing her to keep her eye on it. The house was cold, the combined magical skill of each holiday inhabitant still not enough to warm it and the best that could be accomplished were comfortable pockets here and there in various rooms and along the edges of the halls and staircases in which the temperature soared. The surprise of stepping out of one pocket and into the frigid air kept all the occupants overly bundled for indoor living, heavy, woolen socks and corduroy trousers with scratchy jumpers. She was suitably attired in cords and hand-knits, her hair twisted up on top of her head, the ubiquitous wand hair stick holding it fast, and a gold and red muffler loosely twined around her neck.

She was seated at the end of the table, exactly where Sirius had been dozing the morning of her birthday. It was one of her most favourite spots in the entire house and she was keeping herself dreamily occupied conjuring memories of that day. White steam rose behind her and she jumped up and moved the kettle to the trivet on the tabletop.

As she straightened, two strong arms encircled her and pulled her back into a masculine embrace. She relaxed immediately, with no hesitation, in his arms and bent her head forward as he brought his face down against the nape of her neck, into the windings of the muffler. She turned and he pulled her against him, smiling so broadly her heart jumped at the sight of it.

"Good morning," he whispered and hugged her very tightly before letting go and stepping back.

"Good morning." She smiled up at him. "Tea?"

He nodded and retrieved his own teacup and saucer and sat down opposite her, the table between them.

"I'm so incredibly glad you came for Christmas."

She nodded at this and poured the boiled water over the tealeaves and sat back down. "Me, too," she whispered, smiling.

He leant back and fished a brightly wrapped, smallish box out of his front pocket and slid it on the table over towards her, pushing it with two fingers, watching her face.

"Finally decided I've been good enough a girl?"

"It's personal."

She brushed her fingers over it, the wrapping was exquisite and she wondered if he had charmed it into its festive perfection. "Almost too pretty to open."

He laughed. "I didn't figure you for the precious type."

She looked over at him and picked the gift up, "No? Then why go to such trouble?"

He blushed, then nodded agreement. "I did want it to be special."

With a feminine movement, she centered the box in front of her with the tips of her fingers, sat back and slowly untied the two ribbons, gold and scarlet velvet. Reaching up, she unloosed her hair, setting the wand on the table, and shook the mane free. She tied one ribbon into a handful of waves on one side, bending her head, tied the other into a loose string of curls opposite, sat back and shook her hair again, the long ribbon ends trailed through her dark brown strands. She laid open the paper wrap and lifted the lid off the box. A vial lay packed into cotton, black glass stoppered with an ornate silver filigree cap.

Her brows furrowed and she lifted it out, turning it slowly. A finely powdered substance shifted inside.

He had sat forward, long forearms on the table, the teacup corralled inside his hands. He was watching her closely, his gaze moving between the vial and her face. She looked at him. He sat back, pulling deeply at the tea, and then setting it back down. " _Aparacium somnia_," he said softly.

She gasped and gripped the vial tighter. "How? It's dark art, Sirius. I mean, it's not, in and of itself, dark. But it can be used for dark purposes. In the wrong hands. It's so incredibly rare. So…rare a thing. Do you know the accompanying spell? I…I'm just stunned."

"Shh. Shh…I know what it is. I know what it is. And yes, I know the spell."

"Where on Earth did you get this?" She peered closely at the glistening bottle.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Alright. Snape. I stole it from Snape when we were seventh years."

"For what end?"

"There wasn't one, other than the fact I could."

"Sirius."

He sighed, then smiled mischievously, "We thought it could be put to some use or another. I've forgotten now."

"You've forgotten why you wanted to summon someone into your dreams?"

He curled his lips beneath his teeth and fingered the long moustache hairs. He lifted one shoulder apologetically. "It doesn't matter. We were crazy, Hermione. Completely." He made a motion with both hands. "The ideas never stopped, we were always up to something, good times, mischief, trouble. It doesn't matter anymore." He reached for her hand, "But, now, I'm giving it to you. To summon someone into your own dreams."

She carefully set the vial back down into its box, tugging a bit of batting over it, then settled the lid. She laid a hand on top of it and looked up at him.

"If you want to." His voice swirled across the space that divided them, found the whorls of both her ears and filled them with a thick heat. "Only if you want to."

"I want to."


	14. The Temporal End

A knock.

Someone was knocking, softly, yet insistently, perfectly in time with the beating of her heart. _Knock-knock, beat-beat, beat, knock, beat, beat, beat_. She stood, standing in the center, as though she were the axis in the circular room, the wooden floor laid so that the planks spoked out. Slowly, she turned; looking up at the silo of book-lined walls disappearing into a greying distance far above her head, there was no ceiling only a small opening of black night and silver stars almost beyond focusing.

The knocking continued and she walked towards the sound, a door shut in the curving wall. She reached down into the loose, velvet scarlet dress she was wearing, between her unbound breasts and fished out a small skeleton key hung on a gold ribbon tied around her neck. She bent over and fitted the key into the lock beneath the crystal door handle, twisted it home with a click, then removing it, tucked it away again. She straightened, turned the knob and pulled the door inward.

He smiled at her from the other side, across the threshold. Black darkness falling away from him on every side. She reached out with a hand, as though to save him from a fall, and he grasped hers tightly and with a movement so masculine and forthright she almost swooned, he stepped into the room and gently shut the door behind him.

"It worked," she whispered.

He nodded. "It would appear so."

They stood, very still, looking at one another.

An alternating flush of tears and laughter rushed through her head, into her face, her eyes and mouth filling with emotion. Everything inside of her was tumbling towards him, the weight of it pulling her, drawing her; she could barely breathe through the feeling of vertigo. She was spinning on the edge of him.

And still he stood.

Until, finally, he lifted his hands and opened his arms.

It was fierce. And full of furious love and longing. He pulled her against him, so tightly it should have hurt but it was only passion no pain and his head came down and his mouth found hers. His shoulders had hit the door and his hands were on her waist and in one fluid motion he turned with her and it was her shoulders against the door, her back pushed against the wood, his chest pressing against her own, his hands dropping lower to her hips and pulling there possessively. He was solid and yet moving with a kind of strength that did not overwhelm but complemented her own passive movements.

She gasped out of their kiss and he moved his mouth down into her neck, his tongue laving along her collarbone, out to her shoulder, nosing the material off her arm, his hand coming up to the other side of the collar and pulling the material down. She pulled her arms out and free and caught the back of his head, her fingers combing through great, silken hanks of his hair.

"Is this really happening?"

"No, it's a dream."

Then her hands were inside his jacket, pushing it off, tethering his arms as he moved to shrug it loose, her fingers working the buttons of his shirt, then pushing that after the sleeves of the coat. He pressed his hips hard against her, holding her fast and yanked the shirt and jacket off and tossed them to the floor before dipping his head to one of her uncovered breasts and her own head rocked back and her eyes closed and she groaned his name. His hands spread wide on her ribs and pushed the dress down and he followed with his mouth, the fabric of it sliding over the flare of her hips then pooling around her bare feet.

She pulled him back up to her and she kissed him. Reaching down between their bodies, she slid her fingers into the waistband of his trousers, the button fly straining and with both hands she unbuttoned him and the material petaled open and she had the velvet steel smoothness of him in her hand and he kissed her deeper. She pushed at the material, at his jutting hipbones. He went down on his knees in front of her, his hands smoothing over the length of her thighs and then his mouth was on her and she cried out.

He stood slowly, her arms around his neck, his hands sliding behind her knees and pulling her legs up. She wrapped them around his waist and just that easily he was inside her, the side of his face hard against her ear. And he smelled of soap, and a woodstove fire, the peaty firewhisky and cinnamon. And he was moving in her arms, moving inside her body, his broad shoulders freckled and naked beneath her hands, his own hands wide and strong, holding her, his mouth against her ear, moaning her name over and over.

She closed her eyes, and he was already there, pulling her by the hand up the endless flight of winding stairs, the first step anchored in the middle of her dream room, past the books, up to the opening far overhead, out into the night sky, the stars welcoming them, the stairs still circling upwards. They were climbing higher, he was urging her on, his fingers tight around her own, he would not let go, his voice calling her name, calling her, and still they climbed and the stars exploded on either side. And she was falling, and he was catching her and a warm, thin blackness fell over her head like a veil.

"Hermione."

A low-pitched whisper, her name in the voice of a siren, she stirred and fought the urge to surface, to open her eyes. She did not want to turn away from that voice, return to the small, canopied bed in the Gryffindor rooms, the sleeping, snoring girls, the smell of feminine sweat and torrid, frustrated dreams hanging like cobwebs in the corners.

"Hermione." The whisper again, followed with a firm press of mouth on mouth, lips brushing lips, the cool-warm air of breath, and teeth against teeth.

She slitted her eyes open, inside a canopy of ginger waves, and dark eyes. She reached up and he was solid, in her arms, and she urged him down to her.

He laughed low. "There you are."

He leaned back pulling her towards him. His back was against the door, his long legs sprawled open, she was between his knees, her bum on the wooden floor and somehow it reminded her entirely of the feel of the summer-warmed green she had sat on the summer before with him. She laid her head on his chest, brushed her cheek against the dark hair there and ran the tip of her tongue over the largest inked symbol. She smiled as he growled at the touch. She sat up, his arms went tighter around her and she looked into his face.

"Well, _there'__s_ an advantage to losing one's virginity in a dream – it was perfect."

He blushed and she leaned up quickly and kissed him. He laughed, "I felt pretty confident about the mechanics of it, more so now, but must warn you that subtleties may have been lost…"

She blushed and looked down. He still had his boots on, and the trousers were bunched around his ankles. She sat up and leaned away from him, over his legs, and untied one boot, tugging it off, and then pushing at the trouser leg while he kicked it free. She did the same with the other foot, tossing the pointy-toed boot to the side. His hands were at the small of her back and a shiver ran up the length of her spine and out the edges of her shoulders and tingled down into the peaks of her breasts. She shuddered. And he pressed his mouth to a spot right between her shoulder blades.

"Are you still sixteen?"

"This is a dream, Sirius, not a fantasy." She went up on her knees and turned to him, catching his hands in her own. "And what is my fantasy age then?"

"I don't know, haven't thought about it like that. I suppose an age where we wouldn't have to meet like this, where you could just come and live with me. But not…so much older that you see me for the pathetic pensioner I am…"

"Sirius, don't. Don't do that."

She held his gaze, unblinking and he nodded. "And, in all actuality, meeting like this, here," he looked around at the candle-lit room, the book-lined walls, the red and gold overstuffed furniture, the dark cabinets and then back to her naked form, "isn't too bad, is it?"

She felt her flesh warm under his hot perusal. She shook her head no. He stood and offered her a hand, helping her to her feet. He wrapped her into his arms and they stood together for a long moment. Reaching down he scooped up her dress and his trousers. They dressed quietly and then he took her by the hand and led her to a sofa, pulling her down beside him. A low coffee table stood there, a glass bowl on its surface, laden with grapes and a small plate beside that stood piled with thick squares of dark chocolate. Sirius crossed his bare feet on the tabletop and grabbed a handful of grapes; she took a large piece of chocolate, breaking it into bite-sized pieces in her hand. She folded her legs beneath her, leaning towards him and fed him one of the pieces; he ate one grape, and then pressed one between her lips.

"I really like the way you dream." He smiled at her and she fed him another piece of chocolate.

"This is all thanks to you."

"Mmmmm. In a way, I suppose. But you mixed the potion and performed the spell. I want to ask how many more summonings," he hesitated, "you think we can get out of it…but I'm not sure I really want the answer to that, either."

"Then I won't tell you. It would be an estimate, anyway."

"Don't tell me and I'll get to be surprised every time you summon me." He smiled so broadly she leaned in and kissed him.

"I love it when you smile," she whispered between his lips.

"Do you know, do you have any idea, how long we've got here?"

"I don't. I did as much research as I felt safe doing, you know things are terrible at Hogwarts now, so many of the books are not available and I didn't know how to recruit the boys into helping me locate the one book I needed."

"I've wanted to talk to you about that, well about Harry and Ron. You. The three of you."

She furrowed her brow and he smoothed it with a finger. "You must be joking. Sirius, please, not that again. Not now," she said quietly.

"No, not that. But along those lines. The boys are clever and brave, but it's you, Hermione, who thinks in ways they don't think. You remind me of us when we were your age. In a good way, a better way. Harry relies a lot on his emotions, Ron, amazingly, moves forward with this astonishing faith, but you, you put it all out on the table and look at it, study it, work it out like some complex Arithmancy problem and the answers you come up with are so unique, well, even," he rolled his eyes, "Snape's been impressed."

"Really?"

He nodded. "This thing, this situation, this war, I guess, is going to require something from each one of you, and I know that you can give what's required. I don't want you to feel alone in it, or unappreciated. It's hard for me to admit, sometimes, but we, the Marauders, we weren't like you lot. We didn't really give a toss about anyone but ourselves. Funny how thinking about that for a decade will haunt a person…sometimes I had to become Padfoot just to get some rest."

He looked away from her and she watched his face move through emotions she knew she would never completely understand, she reached for his hand and he squeezed his fingers around hers.

"But what I'm trying to say is that even if your efforts seem to slip into the background, or not be lauded in some way by the others, know that without you…Well, prophecies aside, I think, and I'm not alone in this, that you're integral, Hermione. An integral part. And if I can encourage you to keep devising and deducing and scheming, then I want to do that."

"That's what you want to do, Sirius?"

"And more. But listen, for a moment longer, the twins, Fred and George, if you can solve problems in the manner that they do, but with your cleverness, if you can keep doing that…" he trailed off and kissed the tips of each one of her fingers. "Hermione, I believe in you, more than I think I have ever believed in anyone before."

"Come here," she pulled him to her and he followed her body down into the down cushions of the sofa with his own body, his mouth finding her mouth. The candles burned low, shadows crawling up the walls and into the open sky above, the stars misty behind the morning dawn.

-----------------------------

"Hermione," Remus's voice was low-pitched and achingly melodious in the twilight of the ward. "I have something that belongs to you." He opened his wide-palmed hand and there lay a rumpled bit of parchment folded in the manner that she had grown intimately familiar with. She closed her eyes. "I haven't read it." She turned her head, looking at him closely and saw tears threatening on the edges of his own eyes. "It's not entirely my business, although I do have a good suspicion of what it is, and perhaps," his voice suddenly grew weary and thin, "I should have made it more of my business. No matter now." He leaned forward, over his knees and very earnestly looked into her face, "I'm sorry, Hermione. Truly sorry. For all of us, for him, for Harry, but for you. For you. As happy as he has been this past year, well, I want to thank you for that. If it's untoward, I don't much care, any longer. I'm glad he was able to feel hopeful and have something to hold onto."

He reached for the box of tissues on the metal bedside cart and pulled out two, handing her one. "Thank you," she whispered. They both wiped at their eyes in shared silence.

"So, this was found in your pocket when we brought you in to St. Mungo's. Professor Snape, ah," he looked over her head, his lips pursed against some emotion she couldn't quite recognize, "for reasons known only to himself, attempted to open it, unfortunately…and ah, well, it had been charmed with a repellent for the particularly nosy, which rather gave away the game."

She laughed through a sob. Remus smiled sadly. "I took the liberty in removing the charm, safe as houses now. " He thrust it at her. "He must have slipped it into your pocket at the Ministry. In that first room, Ron, Ginny…you. Oh, dear Merlin. You were unconscious, it was awful…and he went a bit wild." She slowly reached out and gestured for his hand, he took hers in both of his and she sat up and hugged him gently. He nodded into her hair and rocked her tenderly and for the first time in her life, she cried herself empty.

For hours afterward, she lay curled on her side, both her hands pressed to one breast, the missive open and curling against her damp skin.

_My__ dearest H. __I'm waiting for you on the edge of every dream. __Forever yours, S_.

"Sirius," she begged into the dark. "Oh, Sirius." And through the gloaming and into the dark forever night that hung outside the hospital window cranked half open beside her bed, turning away from the lights in the corridor, willfully dampening the whispered murmurs of the living, she closed her eyes and reached out for his hand, for his touch, the brush of his fingers, the warmth of him, the crooked, assured smile, the way his shoulders would hunch and his lower back bend, the muscles taut and strung with excitement beneath the layer of his golden flesh under the skim of her sweating palms, his mouth open and descending, his eyes closing softly at the touch of her lips. She felt the tears behind her eyelids and they burned and burned and burned. "Oh, Sirius," she begged again, "come back, come back. Are you dreaming there? Come back to me. Come into my sleep."


End file.
